


The Haunting of Draco Malfoy

by anno_Hreog



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22868488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anno_Hreog/pseuds/anno_Hreog
Summary: After the fall of the Dark Lord, Draco Malfoy has the rest of his life all planned out - it's not much of a plan, but since his prospects are a smoldering ruin, it's not much of a life either.Until the ghost of his old house elf pops up in his bedroom to warn him to mend his ways.Or else.And only a fool, or a Mud-dleborn, would think of ignoring a house elf.A story of ever-afters and what redemption you can get when you're looking for it in all the wrong places, with all the wrong sorts of people.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

Two weeks after what was already being called 'The Battle of Hogwarts,' the ghost of his old house elf, Dobby, appeared at the foot of his bed, and Draco Malfoy swore off pixie-dust for the umpteenth time.

"... and I'll never drink again, either - or never mix drugs and drink, that is, at least not before noon. Unless it's champagne, because champagne's perfectly acceptable for mornings, with all the bubbles taking up space, it can hardly be considered real 'drinking,' now can it? - don't _judge_ me, Dobby. You don't know how difficult it is to be me, right now." With speech came a gradual semblance of clarity, even if his vision seemed to be a bit off. "Hey, how come I can see right through you? Are you astral projecting? Is this what happens when house elves splinch themselves? Did you leave your entire body behind?"

Dobby gazed mournfully at him, twisting an ugly orange bobble hat in his hands, as if he'd always suspected young master Draco of not being quite right in the head.

"Dobby is not splinched, Draco Malfoy," said the elf. "Dobby is _dead_."

"What? Since when? How come nobody told me?"

"Only a good wizard like noble Harry Potter cares when a house elf falls. Noble Harry Potter is a kind wizard is cares for all creatures small and smallest. Great and powerful Harry Potter-"

"All right, all right, and he's got a huge knob, too," muttered Draco. "Wait, but how did Potter know _you_ , Dobby? I never invited Potter to stay-"

There had been that awful incident with the snatchers when the Dark Lord had wanted Draco to identify the lot of them, but the Dark Lord had been so horrible, and Aunt Bella so in _sane_ , and there had been shouting and fighting, and then the speccy git had stolen Draco's wand in the thick of things. It was just one more seering humiliation on a charnel heap of horrors that had been the last couple of years that it all just blurred together. He'd sooner forget it all. That was what the drinking was for. And the drugs.

Although, come to think of it, hadn't he seen _Dobby_ run in and out in the midst of that fight? Had he been caught in the crossfire, the foolish thing?

"What did you go and get yourself killed for, Dobby? Did you want to meet Potter that badly? I could have invited - " No, he didn't feel like lying about being friends with Potter anymore, even if it was just to impress a hallucination of a ghost of his old house elf. "Ugh, I need a drink." He swung head-down to check underneath the bed for the bottle and almost vomited. His lower half joined him on the rug where he curled up in misery and passing nausea. "Uhhnnn…. Get me some hangover potion, will you, Dobby? And a good fry-up breakfast. Or is it time for lunch already?"

Dobby sighed wearily, as if Draco was a horrible disappointment for all that Dobby had brought him up himself. Well, Dobby could get in line. He wasn't the only one Draco was disappointing.

"Draco Malfoy's parents is close kin," Dobby said, shaking his head. "They's _parents_ is close kin, and they's parents parents is. It's not Draco Malfoy's fault he not very bright. Dobby is not working for the Malfoys for _years_ , Draco Malfoy. And besides, Dobby is dead."

This was too much family talk for three in the morning, and Draco hated thinking about dying whatever o'clock it was. He'd assumed he hadn't seen Dobby around for the past few years because Draco was all grown up and didn't need a nursery elf trailing after him anymore. Mother had said Dobby had been sent to the family farm in the Hebrides, to take care of Draco's (only slightly imperfect) Crup puppy, Hubert, and they were both having a wonderful time togeth- _ohhh…_

"Dobby… " _what happened to Hubert?_ seemed too little too late. Draco hated feeling like he was the last one to figure things out, that was what having Vince around was for, only Vince was _dead_... and oh no, he didn't want to think about this, he didn't have to if he didn't want to, nobody could make him -

But Dobby was relentless, the way only a house elf who'd succeeded in potty-training him could be, when Mother had all but despaired and was half-resigned to Draco growing up to be one of those uncouth wizards who simply _vanished_ their excrement from their pants.

"Dobby come back from dead to warn Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy must change."

"What does that even mean, Dobby?" Draco whined as he dragged himself back onto the bed. "Could you be more specific? Are you saying that I should wear orange corduroy to bed and not this lawn nightshirt? Or do you mean that I should become someone completely different? Like a cabaret singer? A hippogriff? A woman? "

But Dobby was not impressed. Dobby, the elf who lived to murder good grammar, had never been impressed by Draco's verbal virtuosity. And now Dobby was honest-to-Merlin _dea-_

"Draco Malfoy must change his ways and do _good_ ," said Dobby, "and not be a miserable toerag anymore. Or _else_."

"Or else what, Dobby? Or else what? How can the universe punish me any more than it already has? I gave it a chance, you know that? I went out there and I did the best I could, and nobody appreciated it. Father and Mother didn't even appreciate it. Mother didn't even understand how I was trying to save the family after Father was taken away, and she wasn't subtle about it, either, trying to _smother_ me and make sure I _failed_ at every turn. And still I persisted for what thanks I got. And you know what? It was all for nothing! Nada! Well, that's it from me. I've _efforted_ enough for one lifetime. If they don't like who I am and what I've got to offer, then I'm not going to foist my unwelcome presence on them, I'm not that impolite."

"Draco Malfoy is plenty impolite for that," said cruel, merciless Dobby. "And them who? Who's is Draco Malfoy calling 'them'?"

Draco boggled at this nitpicking from an elf. "Them? You know… _them_. Everybody. The whole world."

Dobby snorted. "Sounds like them's is more like nobody then. Them's is more like excuses to lie about and not to do anything."

"Oh, what do you know? You're just a house elf. A _dead-_ "

He stopped. He could still smell the blood, the stench of burnt flesh and pain and dead bodies, see Vince's face falling away from him before the flames rose up to consume him, and the Dark Lord-

"Aaaaghh!"

He buried his head under the pillows and willed it all to go away and leave him be. Hadn't he done enough? Hadn't Draco messed up his life enough already?

"What do you want from me, Dobby? You want me to go out there and rescue baby birds fallen out of trees and run a soup kitchen out of Knockturn Alley for homeless werewolves? You know I'm not good at that sort of thing. I'm not-"

_Good? A hero? Someone who didn't bung things up? Someone who actually mattered?_

"Just leave me alone, Dobby. You're giving me a headache."

"Draco Malfoy is warned," Dobby insisted, as if he hadn't heard. "Draco Malfoy must change his toerag ways, or there be hell to pay."

"Oh, you go to hell, Dobby."

The crack of house elf Apparition made him jump. He hadn't actually sent the miserable thing to hell, had he? Draco poked his head out from under the pillows and immediately regretted it, as Mother swept into the room and jerked open the heavy drapes with a flick of her wand. The afternoon sun was blinding.

"Still in bed, Draco, darling? It's almost three in the afternoon. What were you shouting about? I could hear you from down the hall."

He mumbled something like 'bad dream, wolves, snakes,' and Mother let it drop, though she changed the subject by wrinkling her nose.

"When was the last time you bathed, darling? You're developing quite a unique personal scent." Her eye fell on the empty bottle of '62 Margaux under the armoire. "And your Father's nose for Muggle wine, I see."

The drunken louts who'd occupied his home during ol' Snakeface's reign of terror had drunk up or smashed up half the good bottles, so he and Father had to resort to nipping into the westernmost shelf, which shouldn't have been uncorked for another ten years, what a travesty. Normally, Mother would never have allowed for it, but these were not normal times (see the ascendance of yoinks such as Bongbottom and Weaselby, not to mention the long-in-the-tooth Mudbl- _Granger_ ), and besides, Mother was _busy_.

"Elf-made wine is syrupy shit," he muttered under his breath, but Mother heard him.

"Language, young man, language," reproved Mother, and he backed down without a fight. If Mother still thought that if they kept up appearances and behaved beautifully nothing terrible would happen, she'd learned absolutely nothing. She shook her perfectly poised head, as if she could read his thoughts. Maybe she could. Aunt Bella had been a Legilimens. The Black sisters were formidable, each in their own way.

Mother had always kept herself busy, sitting on the governing boards of a dozen or more Societies for the Improvement of Poor Squibs/ Unfortunate Muggles/ Three-legged Crups or some such charity or other, then hosting the Dark Lord in our valiant war effort, which was now quickly, and with a considerable amount of gold passing hands, being re-interpreted as 'being forced to endure a painful occupation of her home, which led to her pivotal assistance to the Cause at the eleventh hour.' Mother was using what little battle cred she had to come out on the side of right, and Draco and Father were going to _zip it_ and behave according to script if they knew what was good for them.

"I'm popping out to call on your dear Aunt Dromy, darling, if you'd like to come with me. If you could just freshen up a bit…." She pursed her lips before bravely ploughing on with her bullshit plans. "Your Aunt Dromy is sole guardian of her grandson, your cousin Teddy, Draco, and it would be lovely if you could get to know him, perhaps sit with him a few afternoons so your Aunt and I can go out? It would be good for you."

Good for _you_ , you mean, he thought sullenly. Mother wanted to be seen in public with Aunt Andromeda, war hero and mother of a fallen war hero, to play up her slight role on the side of light. Worse, she was trying to pressure Aunt Andromeda into naming her the wolfchild's godmother, so she could share godparenting duties with Saint Potter. The wretched woman didn't care that this would make them god-married, which would allow Potter to lord it over Draco as his _god_ -stepfather.

Mother had just laughed when he'd hinted the obvious. "Oh, it doesn't work that way, Draco, darling," though she'd patted her hair girlishly and made sure to wear _scarlet_ on her lips before going out that day. How could women be so fickle, even his own perfect Mother, going all aflutter at the thought of flirting with a speccy twerp who used to go to school with her son?

"You're forty, and he knows it!" he'd yelled at her as the green flames from the Floo had pulled her away.

Was today long-overdue payback for that off-color remark? The Blacks believed in delayed retribution so that their victims got tripped up when they'd least expected it. What was Mother planning here? Would Potter be at Aunt Andromeda's to accuse him of lycophobia and child abuse if the werechild even burped funny?

"How long has it been since you've set foot outside the house, Draco? Outside the East wing? Your own room?" Mother raised a judgemental eyebrow at him. "This isn't healthy, Draco. You can't hide in here forever."

Draco cut her off before this turned into a full-on nag. "I was thinking of taking a jaunt around the grounds," he lied easily. "See how the Abraxans are doing."

"What an excellent idea," she agreed smoothly. "And while you're at it, muck out their stalls and throw down some fresh hay, would you be a dear, do? You can't smell any worse than you do already. Getting the local help to come in and actually do their jobs has been rather tiresome lately, the lazy things."

No way, since the Dark Lord would lure the Muggles here for one of his _killing sprees_. Mother must have read more than petulance in his face because she turned and swept out of the room without another word - a bit like Pansy flouncing off in a snit. It was dreadful of him to think Mother could have anything in common with Pansy, but Mother hadn't always been Mother. She must have been a silly young thing once, or Father would never have dared marry her.

"Marriage is a trap, Draco," Father had told him that afternoon, the day after Mother had Apparated him home before the dust had even cleared from the battle. She had not looked back to see if anyone was following them, not even Father.

After a silent meal of cold chicken and cold silence and cold everything, Draco had wandered off to the west wing to find Father, who had not shown up for three meals so far, and Draco's over-active imagination had convinced him that the next skipped meal would mean finding Father sitting in his own tepid bath water with his wrists open.

But Mother had only laughed scornfully - she reminded him awfully of Aunt Bella when she was like this. Father was holed up in his study, "thinking upon his many, _many_ wrongdoings," as she put it, though it seemed to Draco that Father had taken it upon himself to empty out his liquor cabinets, via his stomach.

"Nobody told me what I'm about to tell you," Father enunciated his words clearly; he was only second-stage drunk. "Young witches these days like to assert that marriage is a trap for women, that they want to do more before settling down. But it's always been great Juno's plan for women to tie up a man in marriage and not ever let him call his soul his own again. That's why they don't have time to do anything else."

"Is that why you offered yours up to the Dark Lord? Because you were afraid of Mother tying up your soul?" Draco sneered. And immediately regretted his impertinence.

Father didn't even raise his hand to reprimand him; he'd flinched as if _Draco_ had attempted to strike him instead, and Draco despised Father then for being so pathetic, hated and pitied and loved his poor weak Father, and hated the world for bringing him so low, hated Potter and the Dark Lord and even Mother that he thought his heart would burst.

"Oh, Father…"

"Your Mother's a wonderful woman, you won't hear any different from me. A fine pureblood witch, if she's a tad cold, and that's only because she's got dem Black family standards, the bloody highest, there's no pleasing her," Father droned into his cut-crystal tumbler, a bit early for stage three, but there you go. "But she'll pull this family up by the bootstraps and give it a good shine, you won't see the scuff marks for the treads, don't you worry, son. Don't you worry. We'll get through this sticky stretch without too much mud clinging, and did I mention boots already?"

"I thought that would be up to me," said Draco.

"You? _You?_ What could you do that would ever amount to anything, Draco?" That stirred a spark of life in his father that Draco wouldn't have begrudged if the drunken sod wasn't laughing at him. "No. No, no. Every generation has its best in show, Draco, and in yours, we have Potter and his Mudbl- Mubbledorn- _Muggleborn_ witch to set the standard. Even that weedy scrap of a Weasley who's always running after them's not worth more than two Knuts, for all his good Prewett and Fawley blood. As for the rest… all runts and squibs, the lot of them. At least you're well provided for, my boy. We can weather a bad litter this time around. I haven't squandered the family money, and your mother's made sure her dowry's tied down with nothing less than blood rites so the vultures won't get at it. Perhaps your sons will turn out to be a better gamble. Perhaps there's some truth in that talk of hybrid vigor, eh, Draco? Perhaps you should look to fresh blood to strengthen the line."

"I thought you said marriage was a trap, Father," said Draco waspishly, and Father fell back in his chair, all the light gone out of his eyes again as he sploshed more firewhiskey into his glass.

"Tha's true, tha's true," Father slurred. "I said that didn't I? Fair warning that my own father didn't think to give me, what with one sister run off to marry a Mud- _dleborn_ and another stark raving mad. Don't tie yourself down, son. You've got the Malfoy looks and the Malfoy money, and I'll be dang- _dame- damned_ if my own son has to crawl to please anyone, even his own damn wife!"

And he drained his whiskey in one gulp and threw the glass into the fire. Evidently even this incoherent rant was too much of a strain on poor Father because less than a minute later he'd knocked himself out, and was snoring in grunts and gasps. Father's health wasn't what it was, and for all his bluster Father was sensitive and high-strung, like all the Malfoys. Mother was doing all she could to keep him out of Azkaban. Another stint in the poky would kill him off for sure.

All this and more Draco could have contemplated on a long, meandering walk over the manor grounds. Thought long and hard about what Mother was doing to establish herself in the new world order, which showed far more gumption than Father's time-honored method of sinking into drink and apathy. Then, he could have given a good think about phantom Dobby's cryptic warnings and had a good laugh at his own unconscious for being so disgusted with himself that it had rustled up a dream of his old house elf to rouse him into action. And maybe by then he would have made it out to grandfather Malfoy's Abraxan paddock and rolled up his sleeves and given the stalls a much needed mucking out, give the dem beasts a chance to wade out of their own filth. No one had had much time or thought to spare for anything other than the slender thread of their own survival in the past year.

But bestirring himself from bed was far too strenuous an effort for Draco that day, and he was out of wine on top of everything else. So, rearranging his comfortably smelly bedclothes around him like an animal snug in its den (not a ferret!), he stared up at the constellations on his canopy bed hangings as they drifted around the axis of the North Star, and thought about the smoking ruins of his life, and hated the Dark Lord, and Potter, but not his Mother so much any more, until the afternoon light gave way to dusk and he sank into the sweet oblivion of sleep, upon which he no longer had to worry about trying to be a better person just because his old (dead) house elf came to him in a dream and _nagged_ at him to.

After two whole weeks of worrying, Draco Malfoy's plans for himself in this terrifying new world order were stunning in their simplicity: he intended to do bugger all, thanks ever so much for asking, and you can bugger off while you're at it, you nosy hags- uh, sorry, Mother, didn't mean you.

One might assume - naively - that such lack of ambition in once such a promising young Slytherin might have something to do with how the world had been turned on its head, and what once had been high was brought low _et cetera et cetera _,__ and those who were considered the right sort nowadays were a bunch of drags and bores (that means you, Bongbottom & Weaselby) who wanted nothing to do with him. But Draco would have told them, if they'd even bothered to ask, that he'd planned on doing nothing ___first_ ~~so nyah nyah~~.__

And fourteen whole days after his schoolboy nemesis had saved the wizarding world from their own worst selves, Draco Malfoy was already fulfilling his best destiny, quite brilliantly if he might add... if only it weren't so 'nads-shrivelingly _boring_.

He let his aimless life drift along for another wasted day (day and a half? What did it matter?), wandering into the kitchen sometime before some day's noon to scrounge for some cheese, and idly read a brief note from Mother, saying that she and Aunt Andromeda would be visiting the Greengrasses in Cornwall over the long weekend, and she trusted Draco and Father could fend for themselves till she was back?

"But who will think of dear Teddy?" he mumbled around a mouthful of runny Camembert, amused at their flightiness, and wondered what day it was today - Friday? Sunday? - when the calling mirror from the porter's lodge shimmered and chimed, announcing callers at the front gate.

"But why would Mother be ringing the porter's bell?" wondered Draco, before his fear-brain jerked him to alertness.

The Aurors had arrived to haul Father away to Azkaban.

"But all charges of collusion have been suspended while the Committee is reviewing mitigating circumstances!" wailed Draco. Mother had made sure of that stop-gap; she had gotten herself named to the most junior seat on the Committee for Post-War Rebuilding and Reconciliation, two days after the Battle of Hogwarts. She would not have set foot outside the Manor otherwise. Blast those sneaky Aurors for showing up just when she wasn't here.

"What stupid, trumped-up charges, then?!" demanded an increasingly shrill Draco; he did not perform well under pressure.

For extreme neglect and cruelty to animals under his care, he was told. The Aurory had been informed that a herd of rare Abraxans were expiring this very moment on the grounds of the Manor, and _that rat bastard Malfoy was going to pay_ \- for cruelty to those poor creatures and all that, so open up!

And Draco panicked then and there. This was all his fault! If he'd only trudged out to the paddock and hosed down those luckless beasts - and buried or burnt what couldn't be helped - just like his mother had asked him to, this would not be happening right now.

But this was more serious than not listening to Mother and putting Father in a vulnerable position. He, Draco Malfoy, had set them firmly in harm's crosshairs by ignoring the warning sent to him from beyond the Veil. He had brought this down on their heads.

House elf magic was extremely powerful and very annoying, and had a tendency to turn deadly if you ever tried to ignore it. He wasn't some ignorant Mudbl- _bleborn_.

How could he have let this happen?

Mother would know what to do. He had to firecall Mother, but how? Where? She was at the Greengrasses. He didn't know their floo. Aunt Andromeda? She was with Mother, and besides Draco didn't know _her_ floo, either. Who knew the Greengrasses? Pansy was somewhere in Denmark, useless bint.

He was running out of time, and more importantly, of nerve. First things first. Who could help with the Aurors? He needed a drink - no, he needed to keep his wits about him, what was left of them, that is.

In the end, he firecalled the only person he could think of who'd give a rat's arse, even if they'd probably punch him in the face first, yelled at the Aurors in the mirror to wait just one dem minute, he was getting dressed, threw on a pair of galoshes and apparated to the Abraxan paddock to incinerate the evidence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, we add a new pairing and the rating goes up.

Draco had _meant_ to Apparate into the Abraxan paddock. But he hadn't been out there for at least a year - he'd never liked the bad-tempered beasts in the first place - and the possibility of finding the survivors gorging on the emaciated corpses of their brethren made him so dizzy with fear that he couldn't quite hold the image of the spot in his head. 

It wasn't just an old hag's tale. Grandfather Malfoy had had dreams of feeding them a steady diet of Muggles in his mad ambition to recreate the new Mares of Diomedes from modern stock. By the time Draco saw Thestrals pulling the Hogwarts carriages, the fear of horses was lodged deep inside his cowardly heart. 

Draco was lucky he didn't splinch himself. 

Instead, he found himself sitting in the boughs of an ancient apple tree in the south orchard, and promptly fell out of it, just as a junior Auror in chartreuse training robes was clambering over the wall. Frantic, Draco grabbed the nearest broken branch and waved it threateningly at the dirty rotten home-invader.

"I'm well within my rights to defend my home, copper!"

Chartreuse robes fell with a _thump -_ unfortunately it didn't sound like the trainee broke any bones - and struggled to readjust them. A carrot-topped head poked out of a sea of lime-green. Was this a new-fangled Auror tactic, blind you first, ask questions later?

"Argh, Malfoy, you nutter, calm down! I'm here to help."

"That's what you pigs always say before you knock over the china cabinet for harboring nose-biting teacups,” snarled Draco, not letting his guard down, “Wait, Weaselby? The sidekick Weasel?"

"No, seriously, Malfoy," said an exasperated Ronald Bilius Weasley. "You know who I am. We were in the same year at Hogwarts. You mocked my family for six years. I beat the stuffing out of you back in fifth."

"Oh, were you there?" sneered Draco. "I thought it was just your brothers." There, that should rile him up good, stupid tosser.

But Weasel just stared at him cross-eyed, then turned to one side and snickered. "Is that a broken branch you're holding, or are you just really glad to see me?" 

Draco had forgotten about that. "Oh, shut up. It's the latest thing in Earth and Spirit Magicks. You wouldn't know." He tucked the branch into his sleeve. He missed his old wand. "Why aren't you breaking down the front gate with the other goons? You'd better have a warrant."

"You were the one who called, begging for -- " Weasel pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh, for crying out loud, Malfoy. Where's the fire? You were going on about house elves and curses, and Richardson and Ashby aren't going to wait around with their hands in their pockets forever. Now what's this business with Dobby and your father?"

 _None of_ your _beeswax, Weasel!_ was on the tip of his tongue when Draco remembered desperately babbling into the fireplace, to the one person who -- despised him, no doubt about that, but -- would not let their low estimation of his character get in the way of doing the right thing, even if it meant standing up to people with power, even for the likes of him. He squinted at the vision of ginger horror before him.

"Mu -- Granger? Is that you under Polyjuice? That is _not_ a good look on you, by the way. It's not a good look, period. You should _not_ swallow Weasel bits willy-nilly -- _ow!_ Stop hitting me! Auror brutality! What did I say? Oh... _heh."_

"Oh, shut up."

"Where's your girlfriend, Weaselby?"

"I said, shut your mouth about Hermio -- "

"I didn't badmouth her, unless you count calling her your girlfriend an insult," snapped Draco. "And I didn't ask you to come here. I asked _her_. As you so kindly reminded me, I _begged_ her for help. So don't take this the wrong way, _Ronald,_ but after stuffing my pride and going down on my knees before your lot -- most of whom, let me tell you, wouldn't lift a finger to help their Mud-d _le_ born neighbors during ol' Snakeface's reign of terror, but would gladly cross the road to spit in my face, just to show how their hearts are in the right place -- I'd rather hold out for someone who's actually got the balls to do something because it's the _right thing to do,_ dagnabbit, and not settle for second runner-up in the Most Useless Sidekick trials!"

Ron Weasley sputtered in indignation, his face contorted in an expression of a man overwhelmed by too many flabbergasted responses clamouring for attention at once that he just couldn't choose (a look Draco had seen on Father's face far too often for these two to not be related -- _ugh,_ they really shouldn't keep marrying their cousins). 

Finally, he decided upon, "Er… everyone kneels in front of the fireplace, Malfoy. That's just a design flaw. And did you just compliment Hermione? And also, _dagnabbit_?"

"My mother doesn't like me to use coarse language," Draco said primly.

"And yet, throwing around the 'M' word is perfectly acceptable."

"I said Muggleborn, didn't I?"

"Yeah, _muddleborn_ ," muttered Weasel, and hauled Draco up by the elbow and marched him out of the orchard without further ado. "Hermione's not so comfortable coming here, after… you know… so, she asked me. You can walk and talk at the same time, yeah? Come on then, lead the way."

Draco picked his way through the minefield of mushy apples fermenting in the grass, snickering when he heard Weasel yelp as brown goo squelched under his boot and released a loud trumpet of noxious gas. 

"The applesauce from those can give you farts that'll fly you all the way to the moon and back," Draco told him. 

"Lovely," grumbled Weasel. "My mum can write your mum for the recipe. So, what's going on, Malfoy?"

"Dobby," he said shortly. 

"Dobby's dead, Malfoy," said Weasel solemnly. "You really upset Hermione, you know, going on about Dobby like that. Have some respect."

"I know Dobby's dead, dagna- _mit._ He was _my_ elf -- "

And, horrified that Weasel might have heard the catch in his voice, Draco hurried on to explain about his mid- _afternoon_ visitations from the ghost of house elves past warning him to be good-- _or else_ , followed by Mother's casual request that he clean out the Abraxan paddock, and Draco's even more casual dismissal of said request. After that how many days crawled by, he didn't know, until, Merlin's saggy man tit's, the Aurors were banging down their door to arrest Father on trumped-up charges of animal cruelty because they couldn't get him on anything real until all the old biddies on their bleeding heart committees hammered out their deals. Only, Draco just remembered that nobody went out to feed or water those mangy beasts for, oh, probably about a _year_ because ol' Snakeface came over to stay because the Malfoys had the best house -- rich people problems, you wouldn't know anything about it, Weasel -- and did he mention that there were _werewolves?_ Only, now the Aurors were going to find dead Abraxans rotting in their filth -- _or worse --_ for which they were going to drag Father away to Azkaban -- on a _technicality._ And Mother was traipsing around _Cornwall_ somewhere, and Father _couldn't_ go to Azkaban again, it would _kill_ him, he was delicate. This was all Draco's fault for not burning the corpses when Mother told him to, and Weaselby was an _Auror,_ wasn't he? What was Draco doing running his mouth off in front of an _Auror_ , even if he was the wrong color -- that wasn't meant to be offensive, weren't _real_ Auror robes maroon? And Dobby warned him not to be a stupid toerag, but did Draco _listen?_

"Malfoy, dude, calm down. Chill," said Weasel in mild alarm. "And you've got to remember to breathe in between the crazy ranting. Your face went this blotchy red and purple color about five minutes in, and that is not a good look on you. Hey, this is not a big deal. It's going to be okay."

"How do you know that?" Draco all but screamed at him. "You can't know that! You're just a… just a _trainee._ "

Weasel rolled his eyes. "Ouch, hit me where it hurts, Malfoy." 

"And they said no one was getting thrown in Azkaban before that place got a complete rehaul! Shacklebolt _promised --_ it's right there in his campaign promises. No more Dementors, no more lock 'em away without a trial, and more humane prison conditions. He promised! Wait, what am I _saying? Campaign_ promises? Ha! But Potter's as good as endorsed him, which means that _Granger's_ behind the reforms, which was the reason I called her! They can't just go, 'oh ho ho, we'll give just _one_ more Death Eater to be kissed, and _then_ get started on the bloody reforms.' My father deserves a fair trial! You can't do this to him! What about due process?!"

Draco would have jumped up and down, too -- he'd worked himself into such a fury -- only Weasel had his hand clamped down on Draco's shoulder like a five-ton anchor and was giving him a wary look, as if he thought Draco would burst into green feathers and start pecking at him at any moment.

"Jee-zus, Malfoy, stroppy much? You'll get no argument from me. Lucius Malfoy gets a fair trial: check. Good luck and all that. He deserves everything coming to him."

"But -- "

"Uh-uh. Breathe first?" Weasel squinted over Draco's shoulder. "And I don't know much about flying horses, Malfoy, but they seem to be just fine to me. Just a bit… drunk, maybe? But then, so is your dad. Is that him over there in your mum's silk bathrobe, chatting up the girl who's supposed to be taking care of your fancy horses? Maybe it's a rich people thing -- I wouldn't know -- but it's not even tied up in the front."

"What?" Draco whirled around. "What?"

They had arrived at the paddock -- it wasn't too far from the orchard -- and Draco could see that it couldn't have been very difficult for _flying_ horses to get in and out of the stalls and the paddock, wandering around wherever they liked, drinking from the fresh stream and munching on what was more hard cider than apples by now, very much alive. Thriving, in fact. He shouldn't have worried at all.

As for their caretaker, the buxom, dark-haired girl from the Muggle village was busy reporting to Father, who was looking down her shirt.

Turning to Weasel, Draco demanded, "Is she from around here? Is she local? That means she's probably a Muggle. Is she? You lot like Muggles. Can you tell?"

"What? How am I supposed to know? I guess. Probably? Is that a problem for you, Malfoy?" Weasel turned belligerent, as if Draco was overburdened with simple problems like hating Muggles right now.

"Yes, it is a problem," he hissed. "I don't think you're allowed to hire Muggles to work around magical creatures because, oh, it goes against this little thing called the Statute of Secrecy? But how else are you supposed to run a place like the Manor without local help, I ask you? The house elves can't do everything. Not all of us live in a one-room hovel, Weaselby. Who will feed the albino peacocks?"

"My heart bleeds for you," deadpanned Weasel. "And you can't fire her for being a Muggle, either. That would be discrimination."

"What's that?"

"Trust you not to know anything about it, Malfoy. Come on, before your dad gets any more lord of the manor with the help. Which is sexual harassment, by the way."

"Ugh, don't be vulgar, Weasel. I've never even heard of such a thing. And don't you dare bring up that wretched Muggle business -- "

"Why, because I'm just a trainee? Oh, umm, hi, Auror Richardson, Auror Ashby. Uh, no, I wasn't assigned to this case, not exactly..."

He left Weasel to their brutal mercies and stalked over to deal with his own problem. It was awful seeing Father like this, bleary and overly friendly, smiling indulgently at every stupid thing the stupid girl was saying. She wasn’t even pretty. Her hair, pulled up in a messy ponytail, wasn’t naturally ‘dark’ but an inky shade of purple, as were her lips, and her eyes were heavily smeared with soot. Plus, she was _fat._

“Niobe, my dear, this is my son, Draco,” said his father absently, his eyes still glued to the girl’s sloppily unbuttoned shirt. “He’s still in school.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at that red and black checked shirt-- flannel, rolled up to the elbows, and splattered with mud. And her rough blue trousers were stuffed into a pair of rubber galoshes. The clothing was highly suspect. But she couldn’t be a Muggle, surely not. Muggles didn't saddle their children with names like Niobe, did they?

"Sure, _Draco_ ," Weasel whispered, through clenched teeth. "Because _Hermione_ doesn't sound much like a Muggle name either, does it?"

"Does Granger know you talk about her like this? You'd better put out, Weasel, or I wouldn't blame her for dumping your bigoted ass."

Draco remembered -- too late -- that he shouldn't antagonize Weasel until he was absolutely sure the pudgy horse girl was at least a Squib. Luckily, Weasel was stuck doing his impression of a gobsmacked goldfish again, while Father flirted with danger, and Auror Ashby lesser danger, as he poked one of the Abraxans in the flank and almost got his finger bitten off.

"Oi, this thing tried to bite me!" he yelped, and Niobe scowled, peeling herself away from Father for a moment to shoo him away from the indignant horse.

"What were you doing then, bothering her like that? How'd you like it if some stranger came up to you and jabbed _you_ in the ribs?" she demanded, in this loud _common_ voice that nevertheless made the stocky Auror back off.

"We're just here to make sure you're treating them right, Malfoy," grumbled his thin, grizzled partner -- that would be Richardson, then. 

"They were doing perfectly fine until you lot started crowding them," Niobe scolded. "Now you've got them all skittish and upset. And with Snowflake expecting, too."

"Expecting what?" asked Ashby, and four pairs of eyes swiveled his way, in varying degrees of contempt and disbelief.

Father, on the other hand, paid him no heed, just slipped into the paddock, trailing his green satin dressing gown in the mud and whistling soundlessly through his teeth. Oh, for the love of Circe, and he wasn't wearing his nightshirt underneath, or much of anything else for that matter, except for a pair of riding boots. Weasel averted his virgin eyes and led Niobe away to ask a few questions.

"I dunno,” said the girl, distracted by the sight of Father's white blond hair blowing in the wind as he lay his cheek against the mare's neck and made soothing noises. _Snowflake,_ was it? How insipid. It couldn't be its official name. 

"A couple of years, I guess," Niobe was saying. "I like horses, and the big house pays well. Yeah, my mum knows I’m here, why's that even an issue? I'm twenty.” The girl gave Auror Richardson a scathing look as if he were a bratty firstie trying to steal her chocolate biscuit. “She used to work here, too. Are you from the home office? I'm not illegal, you know. Is that what this is about? You're disgusting, you know that, trying to kick hard-working folks out of the country, and stirring up hate because your boss's boss wants to get re-elected. My gran's asking why all the care-home workers talk funny now, are they stealing her benefits, and she's the sweetest old lady. She used to send money to orphans and overseas flooding victims, and now she's worried about refugees taking advantage of the system. You're confusing her with your bile and your fear-mongering, and I won't have it! I'm ringing my MP. This is harassment! _He's_ the one creating jobs. I bet you don't know the first thing about horses. Animal welfare, my ass. Do you even have an inspection permit?"

The senior Aurors left soon after that, leaving Weasel to finish up with the paperwork. They were out of the woods -- for now. Draco supposed he should invite Weasel inside for tea and a biscuit while he filled out the forms. He didn't think he could stomach watching Father playing footsie with the horse girl under the table -- that was all they were doing, if he had any say in it. She was going to smell of horse dung once she stepped foot inside, which should nip Father's dalliance in the bud. Mother should appreciate all Draco was doing for her.

And Dobby's ghost should be pleased. Draco had saved the day -- _er_ , stood by with his mouth open while some girl from the village scared off the Aurors, but who was quibbling? At least he'd offered them proper refreshments in the Too Much Pink Room, instead of sending stale bread wrapped in an old towel and a jug of small beer while she and Weasel cooled their heels outside the kitchen door, like they used to in Grandfather's day. They'd come a long way since then.

Draco was deeply regretting his broad-mindedness when Father, overwhelmed by the stink, asked horse girl if she'd like a soak in the Even Pinker Bathroom and change into something fresh. Narcissa wouldn't mind. They must have something in periwinkle blue -- to match her eyes. Anything for _our hero._

Horse girl just _giggled_ and gave him an unmistakably flirtatious look over her plump shoulder. "But who will scrub my back?" And darted up the spiral staircase, way too swiftly for a girl that size. 

Father dashed after her, yelling, "Miffy! Champagne and strawberries! And run the rose-water bubble bath!" taking the steps two at a time. Forget Azkaban. Draco didn't care if he tripped and broke his neck.

"Oh, that's nice!" fumed Draco. "We're standing right here! Are we not even pretending anymore? Ugh, wait till Mother gets home. I'm not covering for you!" he yelled up at the stairs.

Weasel trailed after him meekly. "I wonder if your dad knows she's a Muggle," mused Weasel, as if he couldn't wrap his brain around Lucius Malfoy doing it with one of _them._

"What? She's not a -- "

"You're the one who was wringing his hands about getting caught breaking the Statute."

He sighed at the look Weasel gave him. "Okay, fine, so she's a Muggle. Like I said, all the local help are Muggles. It's not like we live right next to Hogsmeade."

"Yeah, yeah, who's going to feed the albino peacocks," Weasel finished for him, snorting. "Rich people problems."

Was he shocked? Or was he amused at how casually Father cheated on Mother? And with a girl not fit to wipe her elegant boots? How could Father humiliate them like this, and in front of a Weasley? Oh, right, Father was always embarrassing himself in front of Weasleys. Remember that time at Flourish & Blotts.

But Weasel wasn't finished with him yet. 

"So what I'm wondering is this," Weasel went on. "If she's a Muggle, then how come she didn't bat an eye at the magic flying horses? She's been taking care of them for a year -- that's the whole time You-Know-Who was here. She said her mum's worked for you, too, and I'm guessing it wasn't just boring unmagical things like weeding the vegetable patch and polishing the silver. Flying horses! You-Know-Who! Are they all under some kind of mass Confundus Charm somehow? Your family's always hired locals? As in local Muggles? Just how long has this been going on? Malfoy, this could be serious!"

And Draco thought they were getting along _so_ well.

He was toying with the idea of Obliviating Weasel -- all he had was this stupid branch he'd picked up back in the orchard -- when he heard the front doors close, and a familiar voice pierced the air. 

"Darling, are you still lying about in bed? Oh dear, who tracked all this mud in the house? Draco, I said no more Crups."

Mother was home. 

And that Muggle slattern was splashing around _naked_ in the pink marble tub with Father, who was most likely naked, too. 

He couldn't let Mother couldn't kill the girl and burn the body. They had a witness -- and they couldn't kill the witness either, even if Weasel was just a trainee Auror. He wouldn't even _be_ here if Draco hadn't treated him with respect and invited him for tea.

Why did people keep ragging on him to be _good, dagnabbit?_ This was the trouble with trying to be good. It always left you worse off than before, so what was even the point?


	3. Chapter 3

In a lonely windstruck tower off the coast of Cornwall, three young witches peered into a bubbling cauldron. A worn volume of _Unfogging the Future_ lay open-faced on the stone floor. Going down the list of instructions, the middle witch -- second cousin Eudora -- tossed a squirming frog into the mix, right as the eldest pulled her sister's dishwater blond plait out of the soup with an impatient _tchh._

In the hushed silence, they all held their breaths as the last of the liquid boiled off in a sizzling hiss, and the future revealed itself in a congealed, unfroggish lump at the bottom, before that too came to resemble nothing more than a lump of coal. Then, toxic green and black smoke started spilling out of the cauldron. 

Squealing and shrieking, the two younger girls jumped back, while the eldest tossed self-inking quills and parchment at them, telling them to _shurrupshurrup_ and "quick, write down everything you saw, go!" before running to throw open the window.

Astoria, not yet fifteen, wiped her bottle-bottom glasses clear on the hem of her none-too-clean pinafore. The tail end of her braid still dripped with gloppy green potion.

"Honestly, I couldn't see a thing, Daffy. Are you sure you read the instructions right?"

"Don't call me Daffy," snapped Daphne Greengrass. "And don't talk. You'll muddy up the clarity of your vision."

Astoria and Eudora scribbled for a while before they gave up and started goofing. Daphne looked up from her own parchment and narrowed her eyes at her sister. 

"What's that?" she demanded, pointing at the offending parchment with her quill. Unperturbed, Astoria went on filling in her little sketch. She had even started humming under her breath. 

" _Aster?"_ Daphne said sharply. Second cousin Eudora elbowed Astoria nervously. " _Pssst…_ Story, _pssst,_ hey _._ "

Astoria looked up to find two sets of eyes staring intently at her, and she stared right back at the angry ones -- Daphne's -- and wished for the umpteemth time that Cousin Eudora was her sister instead of Daf. Or that she was back in Ravenclaw Tower and her sister was down in the dungeons… _where she belonged._

"What? You said write down what we saw."

"That's not writing," said Daphne, through gritted teeth.

"No way, how'd that happen?" Astoria looked at her parchment in amazement as if seeing it for the first time -- that just seemed to annoy Daphne even more. Astoria snuck a peak at Eudora's findings. _She_ had written up a list of portents: a tall dark stranger coming in from the storm, a flock of crows against a white sky, a spilled chalice, yadda yadda. It was straight out of the book. 

Astoria had a doodle of a blown-up frog. 

Daphne kissed her teeth to clamp down on her temper. That was never a good sign; Daphne never managed to clamp it down.

"Maybe it means--" ventured a timid voice, and the sisters both whirled on her and hissed, " _What?"_ in exactly the same way that poor cousin Eudora shrank into her shoulders and blurted out, without pausing for breath: "-- maybe it means you're kissing a frog which means you're going to find a secret prince, which means a meaningful relationshi--"

"Yes, we've read the examples in the book, _thank you,_ Dory," said Daphne snidely. "I don't need you to regurgitate the textbook or identify potions ingredients!" 

"I didn't throw up on the book. I just saw a frog!" yelped Astoria.

"Because the last _ingredient_ was a live frog!"

"And I saw it. It turned into a dead frog!"

"That's because we tossed it into a boiling potion, nitwit!"

"And that was my vision." Astoria mimed _kablooey_ with her hands. "You said you wanted to know what I _saw._ That's what I _saw,"_ she insisted.

A keening noise escaped her sister. "Why do you have to be so… _literal?!!!_ "

"You want me to make stuff up?" asked a bewildered Astoria. "How's that going to help with inventing seeing-eightball fluid? And are you sure mixing Potions and Divination is a good idea? I bet Professor Snape would be rolling in his grave, wherever that is, if he knew what you were up to."

"At least I'm trying to do something to help the family!" screeched Daphne. "You just…! You just go on as if nothing's changed! You can't just sit in your room and read library books or go for long rambles in the dunes with the cats as if nothing's the matter. As if Papa's not being called in for those horrible 'interviews' at the Ministry every single day, and Mama sitting at home as if nothing's bothering her, in case they drag her in, too."

"But she's got bookkeeping to do," protested Astoria. "Mama doesn't ever gad about when she's got the annual expenses to sort through."

"Morgana's grace, why do you think she's shaking out the sofa cushions for every last knut? It's in case she needs to grease some Ministry palms fast, if they pick at some innocuous little thing and decide Papa's 'guilty.'"

"But he didn't do anything!" 

"They'll say he didn't lift a finger to help!" said Daphne wildly. "And they wouldn't be wrong!" And her hands flew to her mouth, as if shocked by her own words. Cousin Eudora hid her face in _Unfogging the Future_ and pretended to read. 

Astoria stared at her unseeing, her thick glasses smeared in green goop. "M-maybe, it'll b-be okay," she stuttered. "M-m-mayb-be you'll succeed i-in inventing p-p-prophecy fluid and we'll sell millions of s-s-seeing eightballs, and we'll be rich, and nobody w-w-will be mean to Papa ever--"

"Yeah, or maybe we'll paint you grey and sell you to the Malfoys. I hear they need an extra house elf," said Daphne nastily, as she headed for the stairs. Someone had rapped on the front door, someone who wouldn't dream of using the half-door through the kitchen, and Mama shouldn't have to handle this on her own.

"Wha-a-a?"

Eudora glanced out the window; smoke was still billowing out of it. "Who was that coming up the beach path? Was that Mrs. Malfoy? Oh, but there's _two_ of them. Story, look _."_

But Astoria was already running after her sister. "You're not selling me to the Malfoys! And house elves are not _things_ you _sell!"_

 _Sisters._ Of course it was up to Eudora to clean up their little experiment. The cauldron bottom was burned black. It would have to be scoured clean by hand. Scourgify on an untested potion they'd cobbled together with a sketchy Divination rite would only lead to who-knew-what sort of mess. She hadn't taken six years of Potions under Professor Snape for nothing. Poor Professor Snape. Had there even been a funeral? Nobody had heard a peep about it. But then, people had been squawking and flapping about like a barnyard full of chickens after a fox had gone through it, so it could have just been swept under the rug, along with the rest of it. 

Eudora dropped the bamboo spatula she'd been using to scrape the charred lumps at the bottom and sighed. Her hair smelled of ashes and… oh, drat, Eudora held up one slimy green curl. What were the chances this wouldn't bubble up into frog spawn if she didn't wash it out immediately? 

With a muffled _eep!_ Eudora Tuttle hurried down the winding staircase to the terribly cranky bathroom with goldfish swimming up its pipes.

She didn't see the small charred lump at the bottom of the cauldron shake off its crust of burnt black stuff and hop out with an offended _rrrribbit._

_#_

The frantic shrieks coming from the tower were drowned out by the screaming of seagulls, but the green and black smoke pouring out the tiny window was hard to miss.

From the sandy path snaking through the dunes, the spindly tower looked like it had been sacked by a band of marauding Visigoths -- or Weasleys. She supposed there wasn't much of a difference. Narcissa Malfoy wrinkled her nose and covered her face in her sleeve.

"Girls these days," she said acerbically. "What _do_ they get up to?"

"More or less the sort of madness we used to get up to, I suppose," said her sister. "Remember when Bella tried to raise your smelly old rabbit from the dead? What was its name? Snuggles?" 

That brought a smirk to Andromeda's face, which had gone too haggard overnight with her recent loss. Her husband. Her _child._ Narcissa winced inwardly. If anything had happened to _Draco…._

" _Snodgrass,"_ she corrected, with an exaggerated shiver. "As if I'd ever call a creature of mine _Snuggles._ And Bella only turned to necromancy because she'd killed the poor thing in the first place. She swore she'd make things right--" She stopped short. It was too soon.

"Cissa--" Andromeda's hand paused halfway to her sister's arm. It was too soon for _that,_ too. "What are the Greengrass girls like?" she asked instead. "There are two of them, aren't there? Or was it three?"

It was Narcissa's turn to smirk. "That depends on whether you count the odd cousin thrown in. There's always been that nasty little rumor that Gareth Greengrass sired a girl on his wife's poor cousin while she was pregnant with their first."

Drawing out that _Oh!_ of scandalized pity from Andromeda was almost as fun as it used to be. She'd missed her sister, and while the past two years had made her dread Bella's company, Narcissa couldn't help thinking wistfully of the days when it had been the three of them, laughing and teasing and squabbling over nothing important.

"And they raised her alongside their own?" Andromeda looked disapproving, but not for any reasons Narcissa would have held. "That poor girl. It must be awful for her."

Narcissa shrugged carelessly. "Only if she's a beauty. And I think only since she started Hogwarts. If I remember, the older Greengrass girl is nothing remarkable -- she was in Draco's year. And the last time I called, the younger one was fighting puberty, and losing that battle." She bit her tongue at that unfortunate turn of phrase.

Charitably, Andromeda said nothing in regard to losing battles, only commenting mildly, "Youth is crown enough for beauty. Though we never realize that when we're young."

"Speak for yourself, Dromy. People say I don't look a day over thirty-two -- stop _laughing_ , do! Oh, hello,Cloris. So good of you to see us at such short notice."

The Greengrass's cramped vicarage was more lighthouse than castle, and what little there was in home comforts had been added sometime in the century before last. But the Greengrasses themselves had kept out of 'recent events', and were well suited to take an inoffensive seat at whatever new governing table that could be set up in these chaotic times. Narcissa needed all the warm bodies they could muster to push for 'reconciliation and rebuilding', or else things would slide back to the 'round'em up and throw them in a dank dark pit' approach that had passed for justice and civil society in the wizarding world.

Or at least that was how she'd brought Andromeda over to canvas with her. 

Andromeda had her misgivings about her sister's utterly selfish and opportunistic reasons. But Andromeda had lost a husband, daughter, son-in-law, and even her horrible older sister in short order, and she wasn't losing the one sister she had just regained. Besides, the wizarding world had their fair share of devils to angels, and burning all their demons for punishment would only make their world a living hell, wouldn't it? 

Andromeda Tonks was about to get to the part about rehabilitation and reintegration into society as a nobler course than chains and public lashings when two great girls came bounding down the stairs like a pair of erumpents, the younger one hollering, " -- let you sell me to the Malfoys!" before skidding to a halt on the worn carpet. 

And in that moment she remembered how she and her sisters had been raised, romping all over the house and grounds with their cousins like wild animals, before they'd inevitably rouse Fa, who'd roar and chase after them in a fury with his riding crop -- why had it been so _funny_ back then? Fa had been _terrible --_ and a prickling of tears welled up, and she burst out laughing instead. Next to her on the sofa, dear Cissa seemed to unclench -- just a little. Andromeda hoped that this was the poor cuckoo's child. But no.

Poor Cloris Greengrass, who had turned an awful shade of puce, recovered enough to remark sardonically to her younger daughter: "Well, that's unfortunate, Story. Papa and I had our hearts set on a new piano, but if that's the way you feel about it, perhaps we can find another solution."

"But -- a new _piano!"_ cried the younger one, hands clasped, a picture of Victorian longing, the mere mention of getting a brand new instrument blinding her to the logical consequence that if she were sold off to buy a piano, she wouldn't be around to play it.

Her sister scowled and grabbed her hand, muttering, "Idiot, we'd get more selling off your mangy cats than you," and dragged her out of the sitting room before she could protest this new calamity.

"A pot of tea and some biscuits would be lovely, dears," Cloris called after them. "Honestly, I wouldn't rule out trading one of the girls in for a house elf right about now -- at least _they_ don't actively make messes. But if they're not making messes on their own, they're arguing in the sitting room, until I want to tear out my hair. If Hogwarts doesn't open this fall, I don't know what I shall do, with three grown girls constantly getting underfoot."

"Is that a serious concern?" Narcissa leaned forward, her invisible feelers twitching. "Have you heard anything about how things are playing out at Hogwarts?"

"Just the usual scaremongering," said Cloris. "They've postponed N.E.W.T.s until December, not that Daphne is in any way prepared. I've half a mind to have her re-do her last year, but the costs! But what about your Draco? Could you send him back to that place? After all that's happened?"

Narcissa feigned unconcern, though Andromeda could tell she minded horribly. "Frankly, I don't think I can rouse Draco to take even a stroll around the rose garden, he's become such a frightful lay-about. I'm thinking of sending him abroad to do a tour of the continent, once things have quieted down here. He's really such a little boy, still." 

Meaning, he was _underage_ when 'the troubles' started. Narcissa was adamant on that point. She was laying down the foundations to turn that future 'criminal trial' into a 'disciplinary hearing.' Any wrong-doing before he was of age, the fault would be tracked down to guardians and teachers who knew of his 'delinquency.' Andromeda wouldn't be surprised if she made Lucius take the fall for her son. Cissa would dig up Severus Snape and make _him_ take all the blame if she knew where he was buried. Possibly even Dumbledore. She'd argue that it was all _Dumbledore's_ fault her Draco had been forced to take the Mark.

Andromeda shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "But back to Hogwarts. Who is Headmaster, now that Severus Snape is... gone?"

"McGonagall, surely," said Cloris. "She was deputy head under Dumbledore. Wouldn't _their_ lot want to push one of their own into place again?" She cast an uneasy glance at Andromeda. 

Narcissa interjected smoothly, before feathers could fly. "There is no us and them, Cloris. We're building a better future _together._ But, Alecto Carrow was deputy under Snape, not McGonagall. And the headmastership isn't hereditary, going from head to deputy head and so forth. The post is appointed via the Board of Governors. Lucius still has his old seat. Can we count on Gareth to step in if he is suddenly deemed… ah, ineligible?"

"Or perhaps yourself, Mrs. Greengrass? Why always step aside for your men folk, Cissa?" said Andromeda sharply, earning her an approving look from their hostess.

And so it went on. In the midst of all this scheming and plotting, a rather damp girl came in with the tea tray -- the middle one, the cuckoo cousin, Andromeda supposed. She was rather plain and placid-looking, though she didn't look abused or unhappy, and Cloris thanked her in a kindly, if absent-minded voice before looking up, and her eyes widened in horror.

"Dory, dear," she gasped. "Why… why's your hair _green?"_

The girl turned and ran for the kitchen, though not before her face had turned a bright tomato red. 

Cloris was mortified. "But… but she's a _Hufflepuff!_ Daphne? What are you girls doing up there? _"_

Oh, but how Andromeda missed her sweet funny girl. And this time, there was no holding back, and the tears wouldn't stop streaming down her face.

#

Astoria and Eudora comfort-ate through the entire biscuit tin, and not just the broken bits, while Daphne sat crouched by the kitchen door, eavesdropping on the grownups, and plotting. 

"What does she have to use that disgusting thing for?" Astoria wondered, licking crumbs off her fingers. "We can hear everything they're saying. Well, the gist of it anyway."

"It looks like a big old ear attached to an umbilical cord," said Eudora."Like, if you tried to pull out the baby, but only the ear came out--" The two made grossed out faces at each other and went, " _ewww."_

"Could you idiots just shut it?" Daphne stomped back to the kitchen table and crammed an entire biscuit in her mouth and chomped with determination. "I have a plan."

"What's the plan?" Eudora piped up obligingly, at the same time Astoria shook her head. "No, I'm not letting you sell me to the --"

"Oh, never mind that, nobody wants you anyway," snapped Daphne. "Listen, people are scared and upset, and we can't do anything big to change things."

"Wow, I feel so much better now," said Astoria. 

"I feel like I need to eat all the stale bread crusts," said Eudora glumly. "But soak it in milk first because I'm so depressed."

"Ooh, bread pudding, yum," said Astoria. "Or maybe we can use sweet cream instead of milk, and we can sprinkle a bit of cinnamon --"

"Morgana's tits, will you idiots just shut up and listen to me for a second?" Daphne raged -- she had to blow through this rage to get through to her agenda or she'd be a frothing mess for the rest of the afternoon. "Things are pretty crappy. Going back to Hogwarts is going to be just awful, what with those sanctimonious Gryffindors lording over us."

"I don't mind Gryffindors," said the Hufflepuff cousin.

"I'm in Ravenclaw," said her disloyal sister.

"Shut up, don't you care about Papa and Mama?" demanded Daphne. "This is what they're worrying about. All this post-war malaise crap, and how we can rally together and keep our spirits up, so the bastards don't grind us down. We need to remember we had heroes, too. That one of us is -- _was_ brave and good too, not just Gryffindors!"

Eudora looked confused. "Who, Cedric Diggory? That was years ago but -- "

"No, not Cedric Diggory," said Daphne impatiently. "Professor _Snape_ . He keeps coming up. Everyone's thinking about him, but he's been swept under the rug because _they_ don't want to give us an inch. He's got to be the key." 

"Oh-kay, su-ure," Astoria said slowly. The moms had mentioned Professor Snape, but not like they admired him or missed him or anything. Just that he was gone now, and did anyone even go to his funeral? She said as much, and immediately wished she hadn't because Daphne pounced on her words with a manic, "Exactly! That's what we have to do!"

"What did I say?" asked Astoria, exchanging confused looks with Eudora. Eudora was _way_ better sister material. Their names even rhymed, Dory and Story.

"We have to find where Professor Snape's been buried and give him a proper funeral, and not just natter on that he was really hot for Potter's mom!" Daphne declared. 

"What, you want to dig him up, just to bury him all over again?" asked Astoria. This sounded awful -- and also kind of fun.

"If we have to," said Daphne, eyes blazing. "And it'll be the biggest, grandest, most solemn affair you've ever seen. And we'll get all the Slytherins to march behind the coffin. It'll drape us in solemn majesty or dignity or whatever, and it'll remind everyone that we suffered too. We lost people, we had to live through it, and we're still here. We, Slytherins _belong,_ too!"

"Uh, not Slytherins," Astoria and Eudora tried to remind her, but Daphne waved that off as a non-issue. To any true Slytherin, anyone who mattered to them were really Slytherins in their heart of hearts.

Or they should _want_ to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rowling's Black sisters are loosely based on the Mitfords, so, yes, I amped it up a notch, ala Jessica Mitford's _Hons and Rebels_.


End file.
